


Entente Cordiale

by Verecunda



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 13:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Lady Pole is leaving Starecross. Mr Childermass is disturbed to find himself sorry for that fact.





	Entente Cordiale

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on Tumblr for a set of kiss prompts. This one was for wolfinthethorns, who requested Wintermass + "to give up control".

“You are leaving soon.”

Lady Pole cast an arch look at the riot of half-filled packing-cases that crowded the room. “There is little that escapes you, I see.”

Childermass gave a crooked smile at this return, but he was sincere enough when he said, “I am sorry for it.”

In the months since magic had returned to England, he had been a regular visitor to Starecross, usually to consult with Segundus on some matter to do with the King’s Book, or on the preparations for the new school, and in that time, his acquaintance with Lady Pole had inevitably grown. Their initial relations had been doubtful (one party firing a pistol-ball into another is not generally regarded as the most auspicious start to any acquaintance), but they had, by-and-by, improved. Childermass was used to gentlefolks taking exception to his frank speech and sarcastic manner, but her ladyship had surprized him by matching him with a ready wit of her own. Free from the enchantment that had plagued her for so long, he found her to have fire and spirit, a pleasing disregard for the dictums of polite society, and - what moved him above all else - considerable courage.

"I have no wish to presume upon Mr Segundus’ kindness any longer,” she said now.

“I doubt Segundus considers any friend in need of help to be a presumption of any sort.”

Her expression softened a little. “No, indeed. But you misunderstand me, Mr Childermass. I have no intention of being dependant upon any man.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. He could hardly blame her for that. Having only recently rediscovered the freedom of being his own master, he doubted that there was any thing in this world (or indeed, in any other) that would persuade him to give it up again. “Then I take it you do not mean to return to your husband’s house?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “I have already written to him to inform him of my intentions. I have no wish to be paraded before London society, to be a curiosity for all the gossips to point at and speculate on. I will return to my family in Hampshire for the time being, and Mrs Strange has invited me to visit her and the Greysteels as soon as they are settled.”

“And what do you mean to do with yourself now?”

She shrugged lightly. “I have a project in mind.”

“So I see,” he said, glancing down at the papers that covered her desk, all of them dense with her handwriting. Catching sight of the title, which had been firmly underlined twice, he read aloud, “ _An Authentic Narrative of my Captivity in Faerie_. By Lady Emma Pole.” No discreet "by a Lady" for her, then. He gave a short laugh. “That will cause a storm at the Society, for sure. I look forward to it.”

She looked up at him, sharply, and for an instant he was seized with that singular sensation that so often came over him when he found himself the object of that direct, unerring gaze. Part of it was the uncomfortable reminder of how he had once seen her, alone in that magical landscape, full of fury and deadly determination, the instant before the shot rang out… But that sensation now mingled with another, deeper one, one that was not at all unpleasant and all the more disconcerting for that.

He had never set much store by the ways of politeness, but so many times, when their eyes met in this way, he found himself wishing that someone else was in the room with them - Segundus, perhaps, or her maid - anyone. Alone as they were now, the air between them was full of a sensation - not magic, but fully as potent - a precipitous sense of possibility, of expectation, that if he were not careful, any thing might happen, and he might somehow lose himself…

“None of your Society magicians have any notion of what horrors await them just beyond the borders of this world,” said Lady Pole, and he saw the fire leap into her at once, as it had the instant her enchantment had been broken. “They see only the wonders, the realisation of things they have only ever read of in books. They do not consider the cost. But I do, and I consider it my duty to make it known.”

“I’m sure of it.” He had grown up with a thousand old wives’ tales upon the subject, after all, and he himself had caught some glimpse of the dangers that Faerie offered to the unwary when he had happened upon the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. He had no doubt that she had seen far more than he. “But magic is England’s heritage, madam, and now it is returned to us, for good or for ill.”

He felt an odd sort of relief at this turn in their conversation. The restoration of English magic had proved to be the one constant difference between them, and he sought safety now by taking up his position on the other side of the divide.

Her colour rose; emotion flashed vividly in her face. Indeed, so animated was she that she was out of her seat in a moment. She paced restlessly about the room before coming to the window, as if the memory of her imprisonment was too much for her, and she had a sudden yearning to walk freely.

“Yes,” she said coldly, “yes, you may well say that, sir. You do not know as I do what it is to be helpless - completely, wholly helpless. Unable even to give voice to my predicament.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “I will not go back to that.”

And there it was, he thought, with sudden clarity. Helpless. Well, they were all quite helpless now, were they not? The world had changed so suddenly. The thin veil that separated their world from Other Lands had been pierced through at last, and magic had come rushing back through in a flood. They were all of them caught up in the current, borne along into this strange new world, and they were all struggling to find a foothold in it. She had been more helpless than most, and in response had determined to be unyielding in the face of it.

It was here that he must give Emma Pole up. He could not argue with what she had suffered, and it was perhaps inevitable that she should hold such opinions. But they were opinions he could never truly share. He had spent all his life looking for magic, listening for it, longing for it. He was a North Englishman, a hereditary subject of John Uskglass, and such a longing was to him as vital a part of his being as his breath or blood. Magic had its dangers, yes, and there would always be fools who hadn’t the wit to use it properly, but that held true for most things in life, and danger or no, he could not, in his heart of hearts, understand the wish to deny it entirely.

“The worst of it is,” she said softly, still looking out the window, “that before any of it happened, I was once very fond of magic, before I knew what a terrible cost it carried. I loved to read about it; I would have liked nothing more than that England should be full of magic, as it was in the days of the Raven King. That is something Norrell stole from me, too.”

This was not something he had known before, and for a time he was silent in the face of it. The admission seemed to cost her a great deal, for she did not speak again, and he could not but wonder why she had made it to him.

At last, he said, “I will not defend what Mr Norrell did to you, madam. If I had known what he intended, I would have advised him against it.” He paused, thinking not without some bitterness of how little Norrell had confided in him, after all. Then, “But I am sure that nobody would see you helpless again. None of us know what our future holds, but you have friends who would look to your protection, if you wished. Segundus. Honeyfoot.” He paused, hesitated on the brink one instant longer, then said, “Myself.”

It was impossible to read the expression in her eyes as she looked at him then. Not wary, he thought, not quite, but cautious, watchful, contained. A long moment passed, then she said, quietly, “I do not understand.”

“Lady Pole?”

“Why should you offer me your friendship, sir? You and I have no reason to be friends.”

He frowned. “Do we not?”

“We hold very different opinions upon magic.”

“We do.”

“I shot you.”

“Aye,” he agreed drily, “I do recall something of that sort.”

“Yet it was you who recommended me to Mr Segundus’ care. You helped to free me from my enchantment. Now you offer me your friendship and protection. Why?”

That gave him an unpleasant start. “Your ladyship mistrusts my motives?”

“I do not understand them. Everything I know of you, Mr Childermass, suggests that you have very precise motives for doing what you do. What is it you want of me?”

She had cut right to the heart of the matter, and he felt himself insupportably exposed. He felt the keenness of her scrutiny as she watched him, as vivid as his vision of her in that magical landscape - and yet nothing like it. He could own to himself that he wanted her for her own sake - all her fire and courage and prickliness - but it was another thing entirely to own it to her. She was not the only one who sought security in being uncompromising, of giving nothing of herself away.

But she had entrusted him with a confidence; it seemed only a fair exchange that he should repay her in kind. The worst he could earn himself was a slap in the chops.

“I offer you my friendship, lass, because I like you. I do not do it to claim any rights over you.” He smiled. “Besides, I doubt anyone could make you do any thing you hadn’t a mind to. Man or fairy.”

She was still watching him closely, but her lips gave a faint (and, he thought, wholly involuntary) twitch. Encouraged by this, he went on:

“To speak plainly, I want only what you are willing to give me.”

She looked faintly amused. “So you _do_ have some motive of your own.”

“I suppose I do. But you needn’t fear, it’s honourable enough. Or, at least, only dishonourable in the common run of things.”

If there had ever been any thing missish or retiring about Emma Pole, she had left it far behind by now. Her brows rose a trifle, but she continued to meet his gaze quite steadily. There was no attempt to dissemble, to deny any consciousness of his meaning. Her smile grew.

“You are a very insolent fellow, Mr Childermass.”

His own smile broadened. “I have been told that once or twice before.”

For some time neither of them spoke, each of them poised, it seemed, on the edge of the next moment. Then she put out her hand and laid it in his, as she had on the day of her disenchantment, and he drew her to him, the fine muslin of her gown almost swallowed up in the heavy folds of his old greatcoat. She was impossibly close, her hands clasping his arms, the rosewater scent of her perfume heady in his nostrils. She lifted her eyes to his, glinting with something very much like a challenge. He accepted, and closed the space between them. His unshaven chin rasped against her jaw, her lips parted, easy as a sigh, and they both gave themselves up at last.


End file.
